Friday 27 March 2015


The Lemurian from my dad's book. The one that started all of this.
Lemuria is old, older than thought, older than memory, and its original inhabitants are barely recognisable as people at all, or so say the treatises and gazetteers of the Atlanteans.

Before the Lemurians came the astral race, and the ethereal, the boneless,  the mindless, the sweat born and egg born, the esoteric ancestors of humanity. The Lemurians, unlike the rulers of the West, accept these cosmic memories, see common humanity in creatures long dead, forgotten outside of the air-written record of the Ak√Ęsha. They are the surviving root of the human race, an anachronism.

Ungainly giants who drive dwindling herds of the saurians that supply so many of their material needs, the Lemurians maintain uncanny bonds with the great beasts they ride, hunt with, farm for eggs and meat and skins. 

The Atlanteans don't even include the Lemurians in the roll of races, don't admit their humanity, deny their undeniable psychic abilities, their massive stone edifices. If the Lemurians, who never needed words to speak with each other, were taught mouth-language by the Rmoahals who lived among them, the Atlanteans consider that only proof of their savagery. 

Not worth conquest, they say. Useless slaves. Worthless land. 

Land that yet carries a million Atlantean graves from the last time the City of the Golden Gates sent its armies to the South-East.

Now, driven by invisible compulsions, the Lemurians begin their last migration, leaving the cairn-cities behind as the waters lap first at Lemuria's edges. Now they write on the air and on the water their final testament. Their five million years of dreamlike existence have come to an end.

What awaits them on their arrival?